


Story of Our Lives

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Journal Talk, Pre-Relationship, two dorks in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 19:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: "I'm surprised you don't have it memorized."A pause, then he glances up at her sheepishly. "I do," he admits. "But I wanted to make sure it was the way I remembered."





	Story of Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgentMaryMargaretSkitz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentMaryMargaretSkitz/gifts).



> Hello, everyone! One of the Timeless writers confirmed that there's a possibility of Rittenhouse having the journal. This story is set after the team retrieves both the blank journal and the finished journal, and it's honestly just 1,000+ words of fluff, because we all need a little fluff in our lives. It's also a prompt fill for "Simplicity," requested by agentmarymargaretskitz.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas! I hope you enjoy!

He's engrossed when she walks in, lost between dusty pages scrawled with her words, words he knows far better than her. (Maybe better than she ever will.)

He's almost halfway through already, and her lips twitch in amusement.

"I'm surprised you don't have it memorized."

A pause, then he glances up at her sheepishly. "I do," he admits. "But I wanted to make sure it was the way I remembered."

Briefly, she wonders how many times he's read it already. He doesn't talk much about the year he spent on the run, between a bar in São Paulo and stealing the Mothership, but she's gathered that it was lonely. His voice echoes in her mind, telling her how much that journal came to mean to him, how it made him feel like he knew her.

Her heart aches a little at the thought of him broken and alone, so desperate for a friend that he looked to the pages of her book. But he's here now. With the team. Smiling at her like she's something precious and powerful, just like he always does.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she asks, "Is it?" Soft, just a bit teasing.

He lights up in reply. "Yes. It is." His gaze catches on the journal tucked under her arm, and he blinks, setting aside the version in his hands. "Have you started writing it?"

"No." She's tried a hundred times, has gripped her pen so tightly that her fingers ache from the effort, but... "I just don't know where to start." It's why she's here now; if anyone can give her a push in the right direction, it's the man who knows her better than she knows herself.

He stands, eyeing her in consideration. "You do know you don't have to start it today, right?"

"No, I do. I can't explain it, but I just... Feel like I'm supposed to do it."

He doesn't question it, doesn't try to argue or reason with her. As usual, he trusts her unrelentingly, and she could almost cry in gratitude.

With a hum, he crosses over to her, and she leans against his bed. He leans beside her, shoulders not quite touching. She can practically see the gears turning in his head. Trying to solve her problem. Trying to help her. (He helps her with everything else; why shouldn't he be able to help her with writer's block?)

Finally, he smiles. "Close your eyes."

She can't quite stop the side-eye she gives him. "I can't write with my eyes closed."

He chuckles, soft amusement coloring his features. "Humor me."

Fine.

With a pointed sigh, she shuts her eyes tightly, covering them with her hands for effect. "Now what?"

"Now..." There's a pause, before tentative hands cover hers. For a long moment, he barely touches, as if he expects her to jump away from him. But his hands are warm and impossibly gentle, and she doesn't want to pull away. (Possibly ever.) After a breathless second, he tightens his grasp, tugging her hands away from her face, and she can feel a warmth spreading over her cheeks. Irritated, she tries to ignore it, but by his sharp intake of breath, she knows he's noticed.

"Now, I want you to think," he murmurs, and she nods, furrowing her brows, affecting her best thinking face. "Think about the journal, about the last two years... Think about everything we've been through."

She doesn't want to think about it. They've been through terrible, horrible things, and she thinks it might get worse before it gets better. This war on Rittenhouse is dragging on, and it's wearing away at her soul.

As if he can read her thoughts, he squeezes her hands, bringing her back to the present. "I know, I know. But think of it all. Let it all wash over you. And ask yourself... Where does your story start?"

When you stole the Mothership, she almost says.

But no. That's not quite true.

Her mother has been grooming her for Rittenhouse... Her whole life, practically. (Not that she can put that in the journal. That's one thing she can't warn him about. Because if she finds out too early, it could throw everything off. And because her mother, twisted as she was, was also a lifeline during that first year, when Lucy was still chasing Flynn.)

She could talk about her father-her biological father-but it seems pointless. The man barely played a role in her life. Henry was her father, and Benjamin Cahill never would be.

 _Your father is dead,_ Flynn told her once, and she only now recognizes that for what it was: an acknowledgement that family-fatherhood-was about more than blood.

Maybe she should start with a turning point in her life, like deciding to major in history, or accepting the job at Stanford, or-

Oh.

_Ohh._

It hits her with sudden clarity, and she opens her eyes, to find Flynn staring back in absolute delight. "Yes," he whispers. "Yes."

Before she can over-think it, she launches herself forward, flinging her arms around him. He grunts in surprise, but catches her, actually picking her up and twirling her around. With a yelp, she grabs the back of his turtleneck, holding on for dear life. It's not that she's scared, exactly-she knows he'd never drop her-but she's startled, and more than a little dizzy.

He seems to suddenly realize he may have overstepped, and he hurries to set her down, releasing her sheepishly. "Ah, sorry. I just got a little-"

As endearing as it is, she reassures him. "Don't worry about it."

And oh, he looks positively delighted, not even bothering to school his expression. There's such pride in his eyes, aimed at her. Because of her.

He's proud of her.

 _Of course he is,_ she thinks. And _yet..._

She leans over before she can talk herself out of it, and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. It's nothing, really; hardly a peck, but there's a definite tinge to his face now, and she can't help but be a little grateful that she isn't the only one blushing anymore.

Before she can make herself feel any more like a schoolgirl, she picks up the blank journal, clears her throat, and softly bids him goodnight.

Back in her bunk, under the low light of a lamp, she starts to write.

_"When I was a sophomore in college, I almost quit. History, college, all of it; I almost threw it all away for the chance to join a band. I didn't want to follow in my mother's footsteps. I was sick of living in the past. But little did I know..."_

It’s simple, really: She starts at the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
